


Immovable Object; Unstoppable force

by akirakurosawa



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Canon Compliant, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Heartbreak, How Do I Tag, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, So much angst, The Author Regrets Everything, alas i have no good oc developed for her yet, anyways the russingon is implied as is curufin's marriage, author got visited by crackship fairy and developed feelings for this absurdity of a pairing, but in quenya, canon level angst, i guess, i swear to eru illuvatar i dont know how this happened, it also killed me to refer to curufins wife as such, no actual explicit content tho, no beta we die like High Kings of Noldor, oh also theres some daddy kink?!, okay on second thought, some rough making out implied, there may be some sexual content but like referentially
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26586370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akirakurosawa/pseuds/akirakurosawa
Summary: What happens when an immovable object meets an unstoppable force?The answer is always: "nothing good".OR: Curufinwë Atarinkë is, and always will be, first and foremost, his Father's son.(Alternatively: crackshipfairy on tumblr gave me a prompt for Curufin/Glorfindel. I honestly don't know what else to say except I CAUGHT FEELINGS.)
Relationships: Curufin | Curufinwë/Curufin's Wife, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Glorfindel | Laurefindelë/ Curufin | Curufinwë
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18





	Immovable Object; Unstoppable force

**Author's Note:**

> LISTEN HERE Y'ALL!
> 
> I wrote this crack pairing, courtesy of [crackshipfairy](https://crackshipfairy.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. I was GONNA have them explore the wonders of DADDY KINK, which basically writes ITSELF, due to Curufinwë's name literally meaning "LITTLE FATHER", but guess what? 
> 
> This is SILMARILLION territory, which basically means that my daddy-kink-porn turned SAD and ANGSTY and fucking TRAGIC. 
> 
> SO THERE. FUCK IT. I'M DONE.
> 
> ALSO - I don't know yet what Glorfindel's amilessë is, so I went full regency novel style with "---" instead of a name. Sue me, or sth.
> 
> See end notes for Quenya translations and please, for the love of Eru the Motherfucker, idk, don't hold this against me? Also - enjoy?

**Immovable Object; Unstoppable force**

_What happens when you look across the room and you catch the eye of someone who is your very opposite in every way; who is light where you are dark; loud where you are quiet; agreeable where you are condescending; happy where you are morose; helpful where you are disdainful; free of obligations where you choke under the weight of your familial chains; easy to smile where your smiles never come cheap; revered where you are feared; pleasant where you are_ not _; kind where you are_ not _; loved where you are_ not _?_

_What happens when you see someone who is the inverted image of your inner self, out in the light for everyone to see and feel and look and admire, where you are unwilling and unable to give away any single one of the good parts of yourself up for scrutiny of those you perceive as lesser than yourself?_

_What happens when you stumble upon your mirror and it shows you the reflection of what you know you never could have been, not even in your wildest dreams, but still wish to know what it would be like to be an antithesis of yourself in every way, and desire to experience the utter abandonment of self for just a single, perfect, terrifying moment?_

_What happens when an immovable object meets an unstoppable force?_

_What happens when you see him, and you disdain him, and you decide to forget about him, but then your eyes find him in the crowd, again and again, drawn to him constantly against your conscious will, and you see the ocean depths of them in every murmur of every river and pond and creek you encounter, and you see the gold of his hair in every light that slashes through the shadow and every candle that you burn working through the nights, and you see the rosy blush in his cheeks in every drop of wine that spills across your lips, rich and potent and somehow still never quenching your neverending thirst?_

_What happens when he looks at you and sees_ you _, as you_ are _, for the first time in forever, and he does not cower in fear, nor does he disdain you, nor does he throw you away as unimportant and insignificant? What happens when he meets your eyes and is not scared by the depth of the abyss you know you carry within, the abyss you flaunt as a deterrent for those of weak hearts and weaker minds? What happens when he looks at you and feels your darkness and in the face of it he endures and perseveres with a smile?_

_What happens when you realize that he will not be discouraged even by the full force of your wrath and displeasure? What happens when you realize your apathy and aloofness are all a mask that he can see and a mask that, somehow, draws him in and makes him adjust his trajectory to intercede with yours? What happens when, no matter how stoic and unresponsive you are, no matter what you say or do, he does not cease his attempts to come closer?_

_What happens when you realize that you are not trying to feign disinterest as hard as you, perhaps, should, if status quo is to be preserved and your sanity is to be firmly grounded in its comfortable nook in your innermost self? What happens when you find yourself anticipating the next time your paths cross and the flurry of feelings he evokes and the light that burns your being when you come too close to him and the scent of flowers that he leaves behind when he turns to walk away with a smile untainted by your caustic words?_

_What happens when one day you turn and he is there, and you_ see _him, and you want to_ be _him, and you want to_ have _him, and you_ want _him?_

_Why, you_ take _him._

_He should have known not to play in the dark. He should have stuck with filling the room with his light and basking in his own glory. He should have known better than to thaw the cold that gathered itself around your heart. The flood of ice must go somewhere, and he is in the way. He is always in the way, always there, always with his warmth and gold and Light._

_He should have known better than to stumble off of his high horse, off of his pedestal, off of the safety that distance gave him. He should have known better than to push and shove and yank at your defenses until they all crumbled under the assault and were left in pieces for you to try to reassert them for your own peace of mind. He should have known better than to leave you open and vulnerable and wounded, when you are everything and anything but; when you know no other way to live, but to live within strict rules of conduct and propriety. He should have known better than to make you lose yourself in him so utterly, so as to forget that you do not have the privilege of living only for yourself, uncaring of others’ expectations and calculations. He should have known better than to make you_ feel _. He should have_ known _._

_He should have known_ better _._

*******

They always met at the same time, at the same place. In hindsight, he knew that was foolishness of the highest grade. ( _No,_ he corrected himself. _The height of foolishness was starting this… entanglement in the first place. The height of foolishness was thinking I could actually_ have _this._ ) It would have been better for them to meet at different locations every time, for then their chances of being discovered would have been much lower. The fact that they have not been found out yet was almost a miracle.

Not that it mattered anymore. After tonight, they would not meet again.

Curufinwë Atarinkë Fëanárion stood on the edge of the hills across the Máhanaxar and waited. His horse was tied to a tree nearby, and he could hear her soft puffs of air. The woods around him breathed in their own rhythm, and he could almost imagine their whispers as concrete words, bearing witness to everything he - _they_ had done in the woods. Bearing news of all his indiscretions. To all his shame.

No more.

( _Never again._ )

The hour changed, and the Light of Tyelperion and Laurelin mingled. Tyelperion began to bloom some time ago now, and Laurelin had not yet ceased.

It would not be long before he was here.

As he observed the coalescence of the Trees, Curufinwë admitted to himself that he found it strangely beautiful. Oh, he loved his forge and his workshop - the artificial light of the torches that he made which cut the shadows of the materials in sharp angles and gave off the impression of actually cutting _through_ them, the metals and the wood he twisted and turned and made into new things, into beautiful, sharp things that could cut you if you were not careful with them, the metallic shine of the gold and silver he worked with - it was all beautiful, and he found the expression of his craft much improved when he worked in the absence of the Light of the Trees.

However, perhaps… perhaps he could admit it, to himself if to nobody else in the world, that there was something beautiful in the organic Light of the Trees. There was something unsettling and calming simultaneously in the shadows of the raw Light and the subtle power it emanated in its confounding, paradoxical clash, both elastic and solid. There was something beautiful in the juxtaposition of soft and malleable alongside the undeniable rawness that could be both seen and felt under the Lights’ rays.

Curufinwë could perhaps admit it to himself alone. That did not mean he did not hate it with every fibre of his being.

( _Lie to others, never lie to yourself._ )

He hated the fact that he knew that, no matter how much the Lights blended into each other, it was a one-time phenomenon. No other thing could function like that; no other adjacency would ever be so perfectly blended in its difference. It would be foolish even to contemplate trying to recreate a situation where those two opposites could produce something of a similar effortless beauty. It would be foolish even to try to attain that perfection for himself.

It would be foolish to hope.

That was a juxtaposition that could not be tempered; the opposites could never come close enough for them to integrate perfectly into each other without a ring of discord, which was, in itself, unacceptable.

He was not to have it; it was impossible. He was a fool for ever hoping, and if all else were false, this was more than certainly true - his Father did not raise him to be a fool.

( _Lie to others, never lie to yourself._ )

The sound of hooves threw him quickly from the musings he could easily have lost himself in, if he were not careful. He knew he needed to be at his sharpest for the conversation that was to come. He needed to be decisive, and uncompromising. He needed to not let his guard down, even for a moment.

Curufinwë Atarinkë took a deep breath and straightened his posture, steeling himself as the rider came closer and closer.

He came to the woods in a flurry of movement, majestic and intense, like he always did. His lovely, golden tresses were aglow with the Light of the Trees, making him seem ethereal, his whole being alight and otherworldly in his shining beauty. Curufinwë never knew how he avoided being spotted, when the light emanating from him was always a beacon calling to Curufinwë. No matter where he was, Curufinwë would always find himself drawn to that light, and he refused to contemplate whether that was a conscious or an unconscious choice on his part.

Laurefindelë bid his horse to a halt and hopped down from the saddle far more gracefully than one would expect from a _nér_ of his stature, but Curufinwë was used to the sight - he had seen and experienced that cat-like gratefulness many times, and it did nothing for him.

( _And if he kept telling it to himself, it may even prove to be true. He may even believe it_.)

He tied his horse’s reins to a tree adjacent to where Curufinwë’s mare stood quickly, patted both horses on the head, and turned to face Curufinwë.

His face was serious and curiously blank, devoid of any mischief and emotion that he usually expressed. Curufinwë found himself missing the easy, teasing smile that Laurefindelë always bestowed upon him, that smile that pulled his lovely lips into a shape that seemed to always scream at Curufinwë “ _there is a secret hidden here, come and claim it with your lips, with your tongue, with your teeth_ ”.

No. No more. No more secrets; no more hiding; no more guilt; no more.

( _No more happiness; no more pleasure; no more lo-_ )

“We are done.”

The words came from his throat, he could feel them, but somehow, they did not feel as if they were his.

( _Somehow, they were spoken in a much deeper timbre of a voice as similar to his as the face of the speaker was similar to his own_.)

Laurefindelë said nothing; he did not react outwardly at all, not even with a shift in posture. He was just - looking at Curufinwë. The changing of the Light continued for some time and the silence between them grew - not heavier, no. Not oppressive. He could not understand what the energy around him was, what it was that he was feeling, but Curufinwë knew he could not say anything more, but nor could he tear his eyes away from Laurefindelë, who kept looking at him without any hint of what was happening behind those emerald-green eyes of his. Curufinwë could not allow himself to start explaining, no matter how much the lack of reaction was bothering him - that would mean surrendering the control over the conversation to Laurefindelë, and he was not about to do that. That was not how he had been taught to converse. That was not how he had been taught to demand. That was not what he had been taught.

( _Never to capitulate. Never to surrender. Always to have the upper hand._ )

He had said his part, shortly, economically, concisely. He had said everything he came here to say. There was no further explanation needed - he owed Laurefindelë _nothing_. They both knew when this- _arrangement_ started, it was not to last. It was not to be permanent, nor was it to be personal. It was a- a _transaction_. A mutual understanding of two _nér_ spending pleasurable time together, without any emotional attachment.

( _Why are my hands shaking?_ )

Now, it was done.

( _Why is he saying nothing?_ )

Curufinwë knew he should turn and leave. There was nothing more to be said. He should turn, and leave, and not look back. He should take his horse’s reins and turn his back on Laurefindelë and go back to his home, his family and his responsibility and just leave this childish tryst behind, just _leave-_

“Yes. I imagined so.”

Laurefindelë’s voice was calm and quiet, of a perfect intensity for the unnatural calm of the wood. Curufinwë blinked, once, because he had been expecting - he did not really know what he had been expecting, but he- wanted? Needed? No, he _acquiesced_ to give Laurefindelë a chance to say his part.

( _Lie to others, never lie to yourself._ )

Curufinwë Atarinkë Fëanárion was a well-bred, well-raised _nér_ of impeccable standing and manners, and he would do his duty in this conversation. He was a Finwëan; he was _royalty_. He was of a higher standing than Laurefindelë, and he would condescend to give him this opportunity to speak his mind, however distasteful and unnecessary his words and _sentiments_ may prove to be. It was, after all, his duty and his obligation.

( _Lie to others, never lie to yourself._ )

“You were always very good at that, were you not, _Atarinkë_?” There was a subtle mocking undertone to Laurefindelë’s words that Curufinwë only caught because- because he knew him.

( _Because he knew Laurefindelë’s mind; he knew his moods; he knew the sounds he made when angry and frustrated and ecstatic; he knew his touch and his kiss and his intensity of fire and gold in everything he did; in everywhere he touched, and how he sounded when he was trying to provoke Curvo into losing his mind and his composure-_ )

_That is not my name_ , Curufinwë tried to say, but the words would not come. _Do not call me that, for you know what it does to me_ , he opened his mouth to almost say, but Laurefindelë spoke on.

“Yes. You were always good at _telling_ people how things would proceed. Always good at _declaring_ what is.” Laurefindelë’s voice never rose, it only gained a measure of intensity as he took small steps towards Curufinwë, who stood frozen in his spot.

( _He is provoking me._ )

He should have moved away. He should have stepped away. He should have left.

( _He wants me to react, because every time I react, I – I have him and I – I do not wish to let him go.)_

Curufinwë remained unmoving as that sweet, mocking voice drifted closer, as the taller _nér_ stepped quietly over moss and fallen leaves, making no other sound and yet filling the whole space with his presence. His hair gleamed in the Light, silver shine overtaking the gold, dark green making his eyes appear more sunken and more-

( _-beautiful. He is so beautiful, and so close, and so-_ )

“You were always good at _taking_ , were you not, _Atarinkë_?” Laurefindelë said, and Curufinwë felt the shiver from his breath, so close he could feel it on his lips, travel through his whole _hröa_ and ignite him. “Never good at asking, though. Which is a shame.” His lips rearranged themselves into a smile that others would call ‘open’ and ‘lovely’, but which Curufinwë knew to be _taunting_.

( _That smile that he knew how to ruin completely with his lips and teeth and tongue, that smile that he knew how to turn into nothing more but an open space from which only incoherent moans came, that smile that he saw a thousand times in thousand different ways and had_ ruined _every single time-_ )

Curufinwë _hated_ him then. Hated the subdued rage he could finally see in those eyes of storm that provoked with their intensity, hated the wonderful beauty of his face, hated the scent of roses surrounding them both now. Curufinwë hated him with cold precision that was his defining trait, dissecting every single one of Laurefindelë’s perfect features and forcing them into something ugly in his mind when no imperfection was to be found anywhere _on_ Laurefindelë. No imperfection anywhere _in_ Laurefindelë, gentle and brave and righteous, and was that not awful in itself, and was that not reason enough for Curufinwë to _hate_ him with all his finely honed senses, to hate him and to _want him-_

“Will you ask this time, _Taryo_ , or will you take once again, for the final time?”

Laurefindelë’s eyes were the color of the woods and the wind and the sea, and they were devastating with how expressive they were in their mocking. The shining halo of his hair fell in picturesque curls over his beatific face and sharp cheekbones and Curufinwë did not know when his hand came up to tangle in that hair of light and silk, but he felt the texture and the softness of it that he knew intimately, that he had in his grasp and that he tangled his own with and that he ruined with his sweat and body and yanks and before he knew what was happening, he blinked and he _pulled_.

“I told you not to call me that,” he whispered, his voice ice cracking and trembling, and he hated Laurefindelë for it. Laurefindelë, whose eyes were now wet with pain and pleasure that Curufinwë knew to recognize on sight, the eyes that promised descent into madness and ecstasy.

_It was always like this with Laurë_ , he thought, as the fire burned within him and the desire to take and possess rose.

“That is not a name for you to use,” he whispered, his breath ghosting over Laurë’s lips as his hand tangled further into those maddening, almost sentient curls, and pulled _harder_ and _closer_ and it was still _not close enough_.

“No,” Laurë said, and the word was more a breath than a sound. “I would suppose - ah,” he cut off, his eyes closing briefly as Curufinwë let go of his hair and massaged his scalp briefly, only get a bigger handful of that gold and _tug_ at it again, causing Laurë’s eyes to roll in pleasure because Curvo never played fair, before he regained composure. “I suppose that would be for your future _wife_ to use,” he said, his eyes blazing rage into Curufinwë’s very soul. “Would it not, _Taryo_?” He asked in a tone Curufinwë knew was calculated to sound regretful but was actually _provocative_ , and Curufinwë knew he was fighting a losing battle.

Every single instance of time when Laurë called him ‘Taryo’ rose as a reel of images in his mind, and he felt himself hardening in his breeches involuntarily, even as he saw a flash of irritating triumph in Laurë’s face, who had anticipated Curvo’s reaction. Every single instance of Laurë on his knees before Curvo, of Laurë on his back underneath Curvo, of Laurë rocking above Curvo, of Laurë everywhere around him as the only thing present and real and significant flashed like a most cursed, most beloved, most infuriating reminder of what he had, and what he could have again.

( _If only for now. Of only for this one, final time._ )

Curufinwë Atarikë Fëanárion may have hated many a thing in his existence, but he hated nothing more than to _lose_.

So he let go.

When he dragged Laurë fully into himself and crushed their lips together, it was madness; it was joy; it was blood and hurt and ecstasy and benediction. It was insanity of the highest intensity, just as it was every single time they met. It was thunder and lightning and fire and gold and dark and light and an immovable object that pulled the unstoppable force unto itself, for there was nothing out there in the whole of Aman that would or could _parry_ with it.

There was nobody more different than Curufinwë than Laurefindelë. Nobody less suitable for Curufinwë than Laurefindelë. Nobody less acceptable to Curufinwë’s family. Nobody more unpredictable, nobody less advantageous in any prospects for a partner, nobody as ill-suited for Curufinwë Atarinkë Fëanárion than Laurefindelë ---.

There was also nobody out there that Curufinwë wanted _more_ than Laurefindelë.

He nipped and sucked on Laurë’s lips, never relinquishing control, even when he could feel the undercurrent of rage in Laurë, the hurt and the pain in the way he gave as good as he got, meeting Curvo’s violence with his own. He would not let go; he would take, and take, and take some more, and he knew without a doubt that Laurë would _let_ him, because they both knew that this was the last time, this was the only time they had left. They both knew that Curufinwë Atarinkë Fëanárion was his Father’s favorite son, and that out there a mountain of expectations and duties awaited him, higher than the Pelóri, more horrifying than the Ekkaia, more unforgiving than the Helcaraxë. All that awaited him was awful, and it hurt, so he had to hurt, and he had to make _Laurë_ hurt too, with his bites and nips and tugs, because he may have _known_ , but he never could have _understood_ what it meant for Curufinwë.

( _He had to hurt him to make him understand how much it devastated Curufinwë, to have been given_ hope _and_ pleasure _and_ **love** _, and to know he was about to have it all taken away for good._ )

So when Laurë’s hands gentled in Curufinwë’s hair, when his kisses turned soft and kind, when Curufinwë could feel the wetness on his cheeks and see the crystals on Laurë’s eyes, he did not want to stop. He could not bear to relinquish the anger and the violence and the rage. He hardened his grip in Laurë’s hair and he bit Laurë’s lip until he drew blood and he tried to have Laurë retaliate, tried to provoke him into exhibiting the same animalistic and wild and hurtful feelings that Curufinwë felt with every breath he took. He tried, because he could not, would not allow himself to let go of his tight grip on emotions.

( _Lie to others, never lie to yourself._ )

Laurë bore it all, all the rage and all the violence that howled in Curufinwë and spilled onto his skin in grasps too tight not to leave bruises and kisses too painful to be comfortable. He bore it all and never reciprocated, and his touches remained gentle, and his lips remained pliable, and his eyes remained damp.

( _Why would he not fight back, when I need him to fight back? I need him to hurt me as much as I am hurting him, or I shall -_ )

They separated for breath then and Curufinwë thought he was going to burst with the fury and the ire choking him from within, but Laurë only looked at him and said, in that honey-timbre voice of his that was wet with grief, “I have you, _meldo_. I have you now, and you cannot hurt me.” He kissed Curufinwë’s brow and murmured, “I know you are hurting, _meldo_ , but I have you now. I have you _for now_.”

Curufinwë did not know when his hands started shaking, nor when his whole body followed with tremors of its own, but suddenly he was enveloped in the warmth of a body larger than his. The smell of roses filled his head, and he could not think, he could not breathe, he could not- he could not-

“Easy, Curvo, easy, _meldo_ , I have you, I have you,” he heard the words, but could not understand.

_Why could he not understand, and why was the ground so close, and why was his face wet?_

Nothing made sense and everything was a blur in his eyes, and he could not breathe - _why could he not breathe?_ \- and the only thing real, the only tangible thing in the vortex of his mind - _hurts it hurts why does it hurt_ \- was the gentle voice speaking with care and the golden warmth enveloping him, guarding him, keeping him safe - _never safe never surrender never let go_ \- _do not show weakness -_ “I have you now, I am not letting go” - and the darkening of the Light and the gold curtain through which he was looking at the world _for the last time_ \- “Laurë”, he said - _Laurë_ , he thought - “I have you” -

\- and with that reassurance Curufinwë let himself go limp in his lover’s arms and succumbed to exhausted sleep.

***

When he woke, he was warm and exhausted and laying on something both soft and hard and _breathing_. His eyes were still unfocused, but when he finally opened them, the first thing he realized was that Laurelin ceased to shine, and the only Light left was that of Tyelperion, approaching its greatest bloom.

Curvo closed his eyes under the weight of sadness that overtook him at the realization that there would be no more Laurelin that night.

( _At the realization that there was to be no more_ Laurë _ever again._ )

“How are you feeling?”

Laurë moved underneath him, slowly and gently, his voice still a soft murmur in the shadows of the trees surrounding them, not disturbing the fragile air of their stolen moment in time. His arms enveloped Curvo fully, and he laid his head over Laurë’s heart and closed his eyes, timing his breathing to its rhythm.

He felt - empty.

Laurë spoke no more, only tightened his arms around Curvo and bestowed a gentle kiss into his dark hair. Curvo knew then that he had to say some things, knew it as he knew who he was and what his name was, knew it as he knew that the water was wet and that the stars would always shine and that Time was the cruelest mistress of them all. A part of his mind tried to scream at him how he should not have showed his vulnerability thusly, and he knew his manner had been unbecoming, but laying here and listening to the strong _thump-thump_ of Laurë’s strong and steady heart, he could not muster the will to care about appearances, or - or anything, really.

He was so, so tired.

“You know,” he whispered, his voice terrible, scratching in dissonance even being barely above whisper. “You are aptly named, Laurë.”

Laurë moved a little underneath him, so as to speak, but Curvo caught his hand in his own, and he subsided after a moment. Curvo appreciated that - he did not know if he would be able to say everything he wanted to say, everything he was finally going to allow himself to say, here, in the secluded darkness of the woods, here, in _their_ place, here, where he had fooled himself into thinking that he could actually be _happy_ \- if Laurë were to interrupt him.

“You are as lovely as Laurelin in full bloom, and it is not just your countenance, which is self-explanatory. You are lovely on the inside, and I hate you for it. Every time I observe Laurelin, every time I go outside, I am reminded of you. And I hate it, and I hate you for it.”

Laurë squeezed his hand at that, demonstrating perfectly one of the reasons Curvo - appreciated him. Demonstrating, with a single, shy action, his understanding of everything Curvo would never be able to say. Everything Curvo almost felt brave enough to imply.

“But the worst part,” he said after a pause. “The worst part is that you may be as radiant as Laurelin, and your hair may shine in its colors, but what reminds me of you even more is _Tyelperion_.”

Curvo lifted his head and rested his chin on Laurë’s chest, still reluctant to meet his eyes, for he was being brave in that moment, but never _that_ brave.

“Tyelperion’s Light I hate even more, Laurë, because when the Light shines underneath its leaves, it shines exactly as your eyes do here in this place, when you are with me,” Curvo said, and kissed Laurë’s chest over his tunic and felt his heart skip a beat.

“When Tyelperion shines, all I see is your skin, glistening from exertion under dark-green shadows of this forest floor,” Curvo said, and moved upwards to leave another kiss on Laurë’s bare throat and felt the shiver that elicited from him.

“When Tyelperion’s boughs are decked with flowers, and the Light hits them right, those flowers almost look _golden_ ,” Curvo said, and kissed the underside of Laurë’s jaw and felt Laurë’s throat constrict on a gulp and his arms tighten around him.

“When Tyelperion shines, I hate it, because all I am able to think of is _you_ ,” he said, and kissed Laurë’s cheek, “you _here,_ ” the corner of his mouth, “underneath its Light”, the beauty-mark above his upper lip, “underneath _me_.”

Curvo finally opened his eyes and looked straight into Laurë’s jade ones; lovely ones; wet ones; shining ones; heart-broken ones.

For a long moment, they stayed frozen in time and space, only looking into one another’s eyes, and time passed, and with it everything neither of them would ever be able to voice. The woods were silent, dark and deep, and provided safety for their eyes to speak of hopes and dreams that were to be shattered the moment Laurelin started to bloom again.

Time was their enemy, and time rushed, and their time was about to expire and cease and vanish into nothingness and they would never have any more of it, and they both knew it.

“So I,” Curvo said, and he knew Laurë would understand, because Laurë always understood, “I _hate_ Tyelperion more than I hate _anything_ in this world.”

And that was it; he had said it, and now he could not take it back. He would not take it back, even if he could, because here, in these woods, in this forsaken hour, they were not who they were; they were only Curvo and Laurë and they were broken and they were done and they were over and they were everything opposite that should have never melded together, even if their joining was as inevitable as the fact that Light of the Trees intermingles. So Curvo would never take it back, because this is all that he has left now - this moment, in this time, at this place, with this _nér_ and their wounded hearts crying in sorrow one last time, gentle and awful, as they themselves would never be able to cry.

_(Nothing good ever comes from an immovable object meeting an unstoppable force.)_

“You know,” Laurë’s voice was quiet, and delightful, and horrible. “We really should have known better,” he said, his lips quirking in an everything-but-happy smile, and Curvo felt like his heart was going to explode and like his mind had left all its senses behind, but he said nothing, because what was there to say, that had not already been said and implied and understood?

What was there to say, when there was no hope for them to be anything other than what they were?

Laurë took in a shuddering breath then and brought their joined hands to his lips for a kiss that scorched and ignited everything within Curvo. He closed his eyes, knowing he revealed too much of himself and strangely unable to regret it in that moment, and when Laurë’s hand let go of his, only to tangle in his hair, and when Laurë pulled him gently in for a kiss that tasted too much as a farewell and a heart-break, and when Laurë’s gentle touches divested them both of their clothing, and when Curvo felt the ground beneath him and Laurë above him and when he opened his eyes and saw Varda’s stars through the curtain of golden hair shining silver and when he finally felt all of Laurë around him and on him and above him and inside him, he finally, actually, devastatingly understood what _losing_ felt like.

***

Curufinwë Atarinkë Fëanárion made a promise to himself then and there, underneath the shining stars and Laurefindelë’s golden hair and warm body and whispers of the woods, when he held his lover for the final time and allowed himself to be seen to an extent he had never granted to another living soul ever again.

_Never again will I care about anything enough to allow its loss to devastate me thusly._

Curufinwë Atarinkë Fëanárion made a promise he thought he would never break.

Curufinwë Atarinkë Fëanárion knew many a thing, but he knew himself not as well as he believed.

Curufinwë Atarinkë Fëanárion, as he had demonstrated come the next hour, when he kissed Laurefindelë for the very last time with salt on his lips and poisonous resignation in his heart and turned to leave their secret place for the last time, would always be, first and foremost, his Father’s son.

***

“Turukáno! _Hanno_ , did you hear?”

Laurefindelë almost dropped the chalice of wine when the doors to Turukáno’s chambers, in which he, Turukáno and Írissë were currently organizing a hunt they were to embark upon in two days, swung violently open and Findekáno burst in, his cheeks rosy from apparent running and his eyes shining with happiness.

He managed not to spill the wine, even though Írissë’s smothered laughter let him know that his flailing did not pass unnoticed and turned to see Turukáno drenched in his own wine and his face a comical mask of resignation and annoyance.

“Ilúvatar strike you, you bloody idiot! What has happened, that you feel the need to startle me so?” Turukáno yelled at his older brother, who was attempting to catch his breath and was still beaming, unruffled by his younger brother’s sour reception.

“Oh, you berk, settle down! I bring joyous news!” Findekáno exclaimed, and when his eyes roamed across the room and he realized Írissë and Laurefindelë were also present, his smile only widened.

“ _Nettë_ , Laurë, excellent! This will save me at least one trip, and I need not repeat myself unnecessarily,” he said as he moved closer to Turukáno and offered his brother a handkerchief.

“Well, _háno_ ,” Írissë said, rolling her eyes at her brother’s excitability from where she was sitting next to Turukáno at the table. “Do not keep us in suspense so, what news bring you?”

“A most joyous occasion, indeed! I had just come from a - uh - visit with Russandol,” Findekáno said, and everyone in the room knew that the redness of his cheeks had nothing to do with the exertion of his _hröa_.

_Or at least not with the_ running _,_ Laurefindelë thought to himself, somewhat unkindly. As Findekáno’s siblings exchanged knowing looks, he could almost bring himself not to resent the fact that Findekáno was certain in and able to reciprocate the affections of _his_ Fëanárion.

It did not matter that he had heard nothing from _him_ for years. It did not matter that the last news Laurë had from him was also given to him by proxy of Findekáno - that he was married, and content, and happy. It did not matter that he trained himself not to react to the mention of his name, and that he actively avoided learning about his life.

_(His Father received an invitation to the wedding, on account of their House’s status in Court. The week of the wedding was the first and only time Laurefindelë had joined Oromë’s hunt. He came home a month later, bruised and hurting.)_

_(Even the extreme exertion of the_ hröa _was insignificant when compared to the pain in his_ fëa _.)_

It did not matter that the last time he saw him was on that day in the woods, before Laurelin started to shine.

_(It did not matter that was the last time he kissed those lips.)_

_(It did not matter that was the last time he held his hand.)_

_(It did not matter that was the last time he felt like himself.)_

_(And thinking that_ almost _did not feel like a lie.)_

“Please skip the details of your _visit_ with Maitimo, brother, nobody here is interested in that,” Turukáno said stiffly. “Tell us what happened!”

Findekáno took a moment to compose himself, and when he raised his head, there were no remnants of former embarrassment, and only elation graced his features.

“Curufinwë’s wife had just borne a son! The first scion of the next generation of House of Finwë!”

Laurefindelë was grateful for three things in the moment he heard those thrice-cursed words that hit him like a fatal blow to the chest.

First, that he was standing next to a sturdy wall that he could lean on when his legs suddenly decided to stop working.

Second, that Írissë seemed as delighted at the news as Findekáno did and that her squeal had a very high frequency of its own.

And third, that he had never, _ever_ told his secret to a single living soul.

The world seemed to spin around him and he knew he had very little time to compose himself before the Nolofinwions turned their attention to him. He knew he had very little time to school his expression and calm his shaking hands before they noticed anything amiss. He made himself shut off the pain that threatened to cut through his _fëa_ and _hröa_ both, and pushed himself off the wall.

“Joyous tidings indeed, Findekáno! We should toast to the health and prosperity of the _winimo_ and their parents both,” he made himself say, as he busied himself with the preparation of wine goblets to avoid succumbing to the pain that was cleaving his chest in two.

He heard noises of assent from behind him, but the blood rushing in his ears was too potent and he could not discern the individual words. He only hoped he would be given an excuse to retire soon and leave his friends to their celebration before his haphazardly constructed mask crumbled.

_Eru, I beg of you, give me strength. I beg of you, do not let me falter. If you do me no other favor, grant me this one. Do not let them see. Please. Do not let them see or suspect augh amiss._

Laurefindelë took a deep breath, shook his head for the final time and set his expression into a smile that he knew was too brittle and too artificial, but he could not help it. _This is the best I can do_ , he thought to himself as he brought the goblets to the table and distributed them to the Nolofinwions.

Findekáno’s and Írissë’s faces were beaming with joy, and he once again saw how similar their lovely miens were. Turukáno looked more reluctant to join the festivities on account of his general distaste for anything connected to his Uncle, but a tug on his lips betrayed his contentment and happiness. Laurefindelë found himself praying to Eru Ilúvatar fervently for strength to endure, _only a little bit more, just a moment or two more_.

“A toast to our - nephew?” Írissë asked, tilting her head a little while raising the goblet.

“Finno’s nephew, more like,” Turukáno mumbled darkly, and Findekáno blushed and hit his brother on the arm.

“ _All_ our nephew - well, first-cousin-once-removed, if we want to be technical about it, but I think _‘nephew’_ suits just fine,” Findekáno said, glaring at his brother without any actual heat.

Laurefindelë felt disconnected from the world and from himself as he raised his goblet to toast the son of his-

_(-of his nothing, not anymore, not ever again-)_

\- of Curufinwë Fëanárion.

Four goblets of wine clanked in a note that was akin to a spear through Laurefindelë’s heart.

“Excuse me, my friends,” Laurë heard himself speaking, that feeling of dissociation still present. “I would leave you to your family celebration tonight - we can finish the plans for the hunt tomorrow.”

He knew they spoke to him then; he knew he had answered them. He knew not what had been said, but he must have played his part admirably and his mask must not have faltered, because soon he found himself collecting his things and leaving the threshold of the room, but not before his mind, the betrayer, registered Írissë’s final question.

“What did they name him?”

Findekáno’s answer came just as he was rounding the corner of the corridor of where Turukáno’s chambers were, almost out of his hearing’s range. It was enough to make him stumble, enough to make him put his fist in his mouth to prevent a sob from escaping him. It was enough to give him vertigo, and to make him want to curse and yell and scream at everything - at Eru for giving him these feelings, at the world for being blastedly unfair, at Fëanáro for being who he is, at himself for giving them up without a fight and finally at Curvo for never even trying to fight for them.

It was enough for him to understand, as he had always understood when it came to Curvo, everything that was implied.

“Curvo named him _Tyelperinquar_.”

It was enough to make Laurefindelë’s heart shatter into a thousand pieces that would never be assembled again.

“He is calling him _Tyelpe_.”

It was enough for Laurefindelë to understand that Curvo still hated Tyelperion as fervently and as much as Laurefindelë hated Curufinwë Atarinkë Fëanárion, and probably would, until the end of Time itself.

**Author's Note:**

> List of Quenya expressions I used  
> (and yes I used Tyelperion instead of Telperion because I COULD and also I needed it to make that final awful point)
> 
> nér - male person  
> Taryo - daddy and apparently, Glorfindel's nickname for Curufin (oh god i hate myself a little)  
> meldo - friend/beloved  
> hanno - little brother  
> nettë - little sister  
> háno - brother  
> fëa - mind/sould  
> hröa - body  
> winimo - baby, little one
> 
> If you wanna know more abt this cursed HC, like, let me know here or on [tumblr](effervescentdragon.tumblr.com).
> 
> All my love goes to [fingonsradharp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fingonsradharp/pseuds/fingonsradharp) for indulging me and listening to me whine, to [saecookie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saecookie/pseuds/Saecookie) for cheering me on and being a love all over  
> and to [my bae/bff5eva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GWH/pseuds/GWH) because I love her af and I miss her more than f.
> 
> ANY FEEDBACK IS EAGERLY AWAITED AND TREASURED LIKE THOSE FUCKING SILMARILS.  
> IF YOU FIND MISTAKES, PLS WAIT TILL TMRW TO TELL ME, BUT LIKE, TELL ME.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Through the years](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26664907) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)




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